Never Forget
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Eight months after the events of Everybody Dies, a mysterious patient is brought to Cuddy's hospital. Yes, this story is as gloriously cheesy as it sounds!
1. Chapter 1

**So I came up with this cheesy idea for a fic right after the season finale but decided it was too soap opera-ish to go forward with. But then my girl Mel (aka Video Goddess) gave me a version of the same story as a prompt (actually she gave it to me and my fic twin RochelleRene, but I stole it) and I couldn't get the idea out of my head. You always have to follow the muse when it calls out to you, right? And even thought this story IS hella cheesy, it's kind of randomly good (at least I hope.) Was getting long, so here's part I.**

At about 10 p.m. on an overcast Thursday night, Missouri state EMT worker Todd Wolfson got a call from dispatch.

"Possible skull fracture, cracked ribs, contusions," he repeated, turning on the siren. "Got it."

He sped off.

"Lemme guess," his riding partner Joe Hernandez said. "Death metal?"

Death metal was their code word for motorcycle drivers who rode without helmets. They usually got at least one "death metal" call a week—often the riders didn't survive the trip to the hospital.

"Bingo," Todd said, shaking his head. "What is wrong with these guys? They're either morons or suicidal."

"Or both," Joe offered.

Ten miles down the road, they arrived at the scene. A motorcycle—a Honda of some sort—was completely mangled, wrapped around a tree.

The victim was lying unconscious off to the side of the road. The cop on the scene had already taken measures to stabilize him.

"How bad?" Todd said, as Joe retrieved the gurney from the back of the truck.

"Guy's lucky," the cop said. "He landed in a patch of soft grass. Could've been a lot worse."

"What's his name?" Todd said.

"Don't know. He's a John Doe. Had a wallet on him, but it was empty except for a frequent buyers card from Bubba Burger and this picture—maybe his wife and daughter?"

Todd looked at the picture. The woman was pretty—with wavy dark hair and an alluring smile. The little girl, no more than 3, was laughing.

"Cute family," he said, shaking his head.

Joe, who had just dragged over the gurney, squinted a bit and grabbed the wallet from Todd's hands.

"Hey, I know this woman," he said, staring at the photo.

"That's Dr. Lisa Cuddy. She runs St. Louis General. "

Todd took the wallet back.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. There aren't many medical directors who look like her."

"Weird," Todd said, as he and Joe lifted the John Doe onto the gurney. "St. Louis General it is."

######

They called Dr. Lisa Cuddy on the way to the hospital, told her about the mysterious John Doe with her picture in his wallet.

"There must be some mistake," she said. "Are you sure?"

"Do you have a little girl—about 3?"

"She's 5," Cuddy said, nervously.

"Cause the John Doe had a picture of a little girl, too."

"I'll be right there," Cuddy said.

By the time she arrived at the hospital, the John Doe had already been cleaned up, X-rayed and bandaged.

The cop and Joe were standing outside his room.

"Hi Dr. Cuddy," Joe said bashfully.

"Hi Joe," she said. She peered into the room. She couldn't really get a good look at the guy.

"So you're telling me that this John Doe who crashed his motorcycle had a picture of me in his wallet?" she said, shaking her head, chuckling at the absurdity of all.

"I know it sounds crazy," the cop said. "But you're already here. Why not come into the room, take a look?"

"Of course," Cuddy said.

The cop opened the door for her and she tentatively walked in. She looked down at the guy on the bed—and turned white as a sheet.

"I. . .I. . ." she said, staggering backwards. She slumped into the visitor's chair, next to the bed.

"So you _do_ know this guy!" Joe said.

"You look like you just saw a ghost, Dr. Cuddy," the cop said.

"That's Dr. Gregory House," she said, staring in disbelief at the motionless body on the bed.

"House?" the cop said, writing it down. "H-O-U-S-E?"

"Yeah. . ." she said. Her mouth was open, and even though she was now sitting, she still looked like she might pass out.

"Can someone run an ID check on a Dr. Gregory House," the cop said into his phone. "Yeah, about 50 years old. Male. Caucasian. . . .Uh huh. . . ._Really?_ Uh huh."

He hung up.

"You sure that's Dr. Gregory House?" the cop said. "I mean, this guy's face is pretty cut up and swollen. Is it possibly a case of mistaken identity?"

"No," Cuddy breathed. As if she could ever not recognize Gregory House. "That's him."

"Cause my desk clerk says that Dr. Gregory House died 8 months ago."

"I know," Cuddy said, still staring, hypnotized.

"And if that is Dr. House, there's an outstanding warrant for his arrest . . .parole violation, destruction of property, and, well, I guess we can add falsifying a death report to that."

Upon hearing this news, Cuddy broke from her trance.

She looked at the cop. Then looked back at the man on the bed.

"Maybe I'm. . . confused," she said slowly.

There was a long silence as she tried to sort it out.

"House was an ex boyfriend of mine," she continued.

"Things ended badly between us. Then he died. . . we had no closure. I guess this was just wishful thinking on my part."

"Perfectly understandable mistake," the cop said. "Under the circumstances."

"But the picture in his wallet!" Joe said.

"Let me see it," Cuddy said.

They had hung the victim's motorcycle jacket—black with a thick blue stripe—on a hook on the back of the door. Joe pulled out the wallet, handed her the photo.

She looked at it.

"That's not me," she said quickly. "I'm flattered you think that woman looks like me."

"She looks _exactly_ like you!"

"You think?" Cuddy said, wrinkling her nose. "A much younger, much prettier me. And I do have a daughter—but she looks nothing like this girl."

The cop now looked at the photo, looked back at Cuddy.

"Yeah, strong resemblance, but definitely not you," he said, chuckling. "I think Joe here was just looking for an excuse to call you."

Joe turned beat red.

"Just have somebody from the hospital call me when Evel Kneivel here wakes up, okay?" the cop said. "I have a lot of questions for this guy."

He put the wallet back in the pocket of the patient's leather jacket and cocked his head toward the door.

"Let's go, Romeo," he said to Joe.

Joe looked back at Dr. Cuddy, looked at the man on the bed, and reluctantly followed.

As soon as they left, Cuddy grabbed the jacket, stared at it for a long time, smelled it. Then she took the photo out of the wallet and put it in her purse.

"House," she whispered. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

#######

First thing in the morning, she went to House's room. He was awake, being spoon fed oatmeal by the pretty new nurse who worked the floor.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy," the nurse said.

"Good morning, Catarina—how's our patient?"

"Doing very well. He woke up a few hours ago. He seems a little out of it, but that's to be expected."

"Yeah," Cuddy said, glancing at House's chart.

She stared at House and he stared back, with curiosity, but without recognition.

Some of the swelling had gone down in his face. He had a gash on his cheek, a strip of bandage wrapped around his head, and his cracked ribs were taped up. He was skinnier than the last time she'd seen him; his hair a little shorter. But he still looked very much like himself. And the shock of seeing him alive had not worn off.

"Catarina, I need you to collect some bed pans on the fourth floor," Cuddy said. "I'll take over from here."

She reached for the oatmeal.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy," Catarina said, puzzled. It wasn't normal for the head administrator to offer to spoon feed a patient.

She left.

House looked up at her—smiled a bit.

"Thanks," he said. He was expecting her to feed him more.

"What the hell is going on, House?" Cuddy hissed.

"I'm sorry?" he said, taken aback.

"Why are you alive? And in my hospital?"

"I don't know," he said. "They said it was a motorcycle accident. I don't remember anything. . . This is your hospital?"

She frowned at him.

"I'm the director of medicine here," she said. "But clearly you already know that. Take me back eight months. Why does everything think you're dead, House? What are you doing in St. Louis? And what about this warrant for your arrest?"

His eyes widened.

"I'm . . .I'm. . .do we know each other?" he said.

She put her hands on her hips.

"Cut the crap House. I've already covered for you. And I will continue covering for you—_if_ you level with me."

He blinked.

"I'm thirsty," he said.

She rolled her eyes a bit, got him a glass of water, and a straw, held it for him as he sipped.

"Everyone thinks I'm dead?" he said, between sips.

"Yeah," she said, lost in thought for a moment. "There was a funeral. . .I didn't. . . I couldn't. . ."

House still looked absolutely baffled.

She regarded him cautiously.

"What's your name?" she said to him.

"My name? It's. . ." Now some fear flashed across his face. "I don't know."

She stared at him, trying to figure out if he was bluffing. If so, it was a command performance.

"And what's my name?" she asked.

"The nurse called you Dr. Cuddy."

"Shit," Cuddy said, squinting at him. "You're really not faking it, are you?"

"I . . . don't think so," he said.

"Wow."

She slumped back down in the visitor's chair.

If he wasn't faking it he was currently a very scared amnesia patient—and she was shirking her medical responsibilities.

"Amnesia is not uncommon when there's been trauma to the head," she said reassuringly. "I wouldn't worry too much. Your memory should come back in bits and pieces. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"I have a headache, it's hard to breathe, and my leg hurts like hell."

The leg hadn't been hurt in the crash. He was talking about his infarction. Oh God, he didn't even know that he was a cripple.

"I'll have the nurse up your pain meds," she said.

"An angel of mercy," he said gratefully, leaning back on the pillow. He looked at her, as if for the first time noticing how pretty she was. "So we used to know each other but you thought I was _dead_?" he said.

"Something like that," Cuddy said.

"How did we know each other?"

"You used to work for me," she said. "And we . . . dated." She was going to say _were in love_, but amended it.

He smiled at that.

"I had good taste," he said.

She chuckled: Flirtatious even when concussed.

"You said I worked for you," House continued. "As a . . ._doctor_?"

"Yeah, as a doctor. Not just any doctor. One of the best doctors in the country."

"I wonder if I still. . . Let me see that," he said, gesturing to his scan at the foot of his bed.

She handed it to him.

"Intracranial injury," he said. "Minor soft tissue swelling. . . No hematomas. . .In short, I got knocked pretty hard on the head."

Cuddy nodded at him, in shock.

Just then, House's attending, Dr. Rayburn, approached the room.

"Listen," Cuddy said. "This is going to sound crazy, but your name is Greg House and you apparently faked your own death to evade arrest. And as I'm the only one who knows you're alive we're going to have to pretend that we don't know each other…which shouldn't be too hard for you, since you clearly have no idea who I am."

"True," he said. "But I like you already."

######

The next day, Cuddy went by House's room to check on him. He was writhing in the bed, screaming in agony.

The nurse hovering over him looked completely stunned.

When she saw Cuddy, she said, "I don't know what happened. His wounds are recovering, we eased up on the meds, and now . . .this."

"Cuddy!" House said between screams. "Help me!"

The familiar way he said Cuddy threw her off: But he was probably just so sick, he had dispensed with the honorifics.  
Cuddy looked at him helplessly: How do you explain to a man who doesn't even know he's an addict that he's going through withdrawal?

"He seems to be going through some sort of opiate withdrawal—possibly oxycontin or, uh, vicodin," she said to the nurse. "Get Dr. Rayburn."

She turned to House, took his hand, and said quietly: "You're going to be okay. You had a vicodin dependency because of the pain in your leg. You're withdrawing now. It's going to be a very unpleasant 36 hours—but you will survive it."

"Will you. . . stay with me?" he asked, pleadingly.

Of course. She was his only lifeline at this hospital, the only connection to who he was once was.

And even thought part of Cuddy was angry with House—his showing up in St. Louis was obviously no coincidence. And the motorcycle accident? A calculated risk to end up in her hospital? Or a fuck-you suicide attempt, with that picture of her and Rachel in his wallet to assure she'd be notified when they found the body?

Whatever the case, the man in the bed knew nothing of that. He only knew that he was in pain and scared and that his "angel of mercy" was holding his hand.

"I can't. . ." she said. "I have a hospital to run. But I promise to check on you later."

"Okay," he said, through chattered teeth.

"Just breathe," she said. "Dr. Rayburn is going to give you something—"

"Clonidine," House said.

She'd forgotten. He'd retained all his medical knowledge.

"Right. Clonidine. It'll help. A little. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She came back a few hours later, and he was doing even worse—trembling, in agony, delirious.

"I'm a terrible person," he kept saying to Cuddy. "I'm sorry. I'm a terrible person."

"You have nothing to apologize for," she said, puzzled. (In a delirious state, had he accessed some latent memory—of their breakup, the car crash, of faking of his own death?)

She wanted to kiss his forehead, but felt the gesture was too intimate. Instead, she smoothed his hair, something she had done with patients in pain before.

"Shhh," she said. "Shhhh. It's going to be okay."

By the next day, he was much better. Sitting up in bed, drinking broth.

The wounds on his face and his broken ribs were healing nicely, too. He'd be going "home" soon—wherever that might be.

"The cops are coming by in a few minutes. They have a few questions for you," Cuddy said. "Just . . .well, tell the truth as you know it."

"Okay," he said. He blinked at her. "Thanks for comforting me yesterday."

"It's okay," she said, trying to make her voice sound casual. "That's what I'm here for."

She started to leave his room, then stopped.

"House?" she said. (Then she reminded herself—she needed to stop calling him that. )

"Yeah?"

"Yesterday you kept apologizing to me. For being a terrible person. . .do you have any idea what that was about?"

"I don't know," House said. "I guess I was thinking I must've been a terrible person to deserve such pain."

######

After the cops questioned House, they met Cuddy in the hallway.

"So?" she said.

"So, the guy's either the best liar on the planet or he's a real John Doe," said the cop from the previous night. "Has no idea who he is or where he came from . . .Must be a strange sensation."

"What happens next?" Cuddy asked.

"We keep running a Missing Persons report—somewhere out there this guy's gotta have a wife, a girlfriend, a family member who's searching for him. In the meantime, we can only hope he starts to get his memory back. There's not much we can do beyond that."

"And the . . . picture in his wallet?"

"Says he found it on the street. Thought the lady was pretty so he kept it."

"Huh," Cuddy said.

"How's he doing, health-wise?" the second cop said.

"He's healing on schedule. We're getting ready to release him, maybe as soon as tomorrow," Cuddy said. "Where will he go?"

The first cop shrugged.

"If he has no money and no place to go, he may have to stay at a homeless shelter. There's not a lot of precedent for this sort of thing."

Crap! Crap, crap, crap. What was she supposed to do—let House wander the streets like a vagrant?

"Thanks officers," she said.

How was it that Gregory House, even when he was supposed to be dead, had such an unmistakable way of screwing with her life?

#####

When Cuddy found out that House had died, she sunk into a rather deep and inconsolable depression. He was the love of her life, even if his selfishness and recklessness had almost ruined her. She told Rachel she was sick—and spent several days crying, moping around the house, torturing herself by looking at old pictures.

The idea of attending the funeral filled her with dread—all those eyes, all those questions, all those people who could never possibly understand the depth of her connection to him.

So she lit a candle and murmured some words for him—not so much a prayer (House would never approve), but an incantation:

"I loved you. I hated you. You were the greatest thing in my life. And the worst thing in my life. I hope in death you find some peace that you never found here. Goodbye, House."

And she blew out the candle.

That gave her some measure of closure, but didn't lift the depression.

"Mama, why are still sick?" Rachel asked. (She hadn't told Rachel about House's death. There was no need to burden the child with this news.)

For her daughter's sake, she had to snap out of it—so she did, faking it until she was making it, as it were.

And now. . .this.

One thing was for certain: She sure as hell wasn't bringing House home with her.

So she came up with a compromise. She found a residential center called The Horizon House—a halfway house of sorts—for recovering addicts, traumatized vets, ex-cons, that sort of thing.

It wasn't the Ritz, but it was fairly nice as such places went. It cost $1,500 a month—and Cuddy paid the bill, anonymously. (She lied to House, told him that his stay was subsidized by the state.)

She drove him there, herself—and felt a pang of sadness the likes of which she hadn't experienced since the first time she dropped Rachel off at kindergarten.

"You going to be okay?" she said.

"Sure," he said unconvincingly, glancing nervously at the door.

"Headaches gone?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, scratching his head. They had removed the bandage that morning.

"And the ribs?"

"It only hurts when I laugh. . . so no worries there."

They both looked down.

"I'll come visit you, okay?" she said. "Once you've settled in."

"I'd like that," he said.

There was so much she wanted to say to him. But not to him, really—not to this stranger who looked and talked like Gregory House but shared none of his memories, of _their_ memories.

"Your memory could still come back, you know?" she said, trying to remain optimistic.

In truth, there were cases of amnesia where the memory never returned—and the longer House went without recovering them, the less the odds were in his favor.

"I know," he said, overly brightly.

She took his hand, squeezed it.

"Take care," she said. "You have my number. Call me if you need anything."

She began to walk away.

"Dr. Cuddy?" he shouted after her.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for everything."

"You're welcome."

"I don't know how he—how _I_— ever let you get away."

#####


	2. Chapter 2

It was almost better when he was dead.

At least when he was dead there was something to mourn, something finite, absolute. Not this purgatory of Greg House being both alive and dead—both in her life and out of it.

After five weeks, she couldn't take it anymore.

She got a babysitter for Rachel, and went to the Horizon House to visit him.

She strode up to the front desk.

The clerk was a middle-aged black woman, with a pleasant, if slightly pock-marked face.

"I'm looking for a resident here," she said. "They brought him in as a John Doe? He walks with a limp?"

"Oh, you mean Doc!" the woman said, smiling broadly.

Cuddy gave a slight smile.

"Doc. Yeah. . . I guess so."

"He's not here."

"Not here as in. . .moved out?" Cuddy said, panicking a bit.

"Not here as in, he's at work."

Work? There was no way House could practice medicine anymore—he had no record of his education, let alone a license. So what kind of work could he possibly have, especially at this hour?

"He plays piano at a hotel lounge," the woman said, as if reading her thoughts.

So he could still play piano, too. The brain was a fascinating organ.

"Which hotel?"

"The Lancelot. You know the place?"

Cuddy nodded. It was right up House's alley: An historic hotel that had somewhat gone to seed. The Oriental rugs were faded, the lampshades were dusty, the furniture hadn't been in style since 1965. Great bones, but a little rough around the edges—just like House himself.

"Thanks," she said.

She drove to the hotel, took a seat at the lounge bar.

House was sitting at the piano, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black skinny tie. He was playing a kind of tinkering jazz that blended with the murmured conversations and clinking glasses.

Most of the guests in the lounge were ignoring him–or finding the music to be nothing more than a pleasant diversion. But there was a small cadre of bleached blonde, busty middle-aged women—cougars, you might call them—who were gathered around the piano, watching him attentively.

Every time he finished a song, they applauded loudly.

"That was Tears on My Pillow," House said.

"No need to cry, baby. I'll comfort you," one of the ladies said.

The other ladies giggled.

"Our pianist has groupies," the bartender said, noticing Cuddy scowling in their direction. "You know Doc?"

"You could say that," she said. "A lifetime ago."

"He's an enigmatic guy. Doesn't talk much. I think that's part of his appeal to the ladies."

Cuddy nodded. She couldn't exactly disagree.

"Can you send him a drink for me? A Dewars on the rocks?"

"That's not his drink," the bartender said. "He drinks bourbon. Jim Beam."

Another bit of neurological weirdness.

"Jim Beam then," she said.

The bartender sent over the drink, pointed at Cuddy.

It was hard to explain the look on House's face when he saw her—joy mixed with something akin to relief.

"Back in 10," he said to the assembled crowd.

He walked up to her.

"Dr. Cuddy!" he said. "How'd you find me here?"

"The woman at the front desk at Horizon House."

"Dolores," House said. "Nice lady."

Cuddy regarded him curiously. She had never once heard House refer to anyone as a "nice lady."

"It's great to see you, Dr. Cuddy."

"Call me. . .Lisa," she said.

"Okay, Lisa," he said, a tiny, amused half smile playing at his lips.

"And everyone around here has been calling me Doc."

"Because they know you used to be an MD?"

"Guy had a heart attack," House explained. "I stabilized him. I guess it looked like I knew what I was doing. The nickname stuck."

"If you're going to have a heart attack at any hotel lounge . . ." Cuddy said.

"This is the place to have it," they said in unison.

House grinned at her.

"Listen," he said. "I have to get back to my set. But I have something I need to . . .give you. I'll be done in 45 minutes. Can you stick around?"

"_Give_ me?"

"Yeah," he said. "Can you stay?"

She looked at her watch. It was 10:15.

"Okay," she said skeptically.

She noticed that the cougars were eyeing her enviously.

"Figures he'd go for that classy type," she heard one of the women say.

After the set, House limped over, sat down.

"You played beautifully," Cuddy said.

"I'm glad someone was listening," he said.

"Your fan club was rapt," Cuddy protested.

"Yeah, but they're not here for the music," he said.

He ordered a bourbon for himself and a vodka martini for Cuddy.

"So what did you want to give me?" she asked.

He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out two envelopes.

"This," he said.

She furrowed her brow. Took the first envelope, opened it.

It was a cashier's check for $1,500.

"States don't subsidize places as nice as the Horizon House," he said.

She'd forgotten how smart he was. Nothing ever got past him.

"But where did you get this money?" she said.

"Turns out, there was a key in the pocket to my jacket that opened a security deposit box," he said. "There was 75 grand in cash in there. I guess it was my rainy day fund or something."

"Wow," she said. "House thought of everything."

"And there was something else," he said. "This letter. It was addressed to you."

He slid a second envelope toward her.

She looked at it. It was a white envelope with the name "Cuddy" written on the outside, in House's unmistakable chicken scrawl.

A chill went down her spine. She had the strange sensation that she was getting a letter from a ghost. And yet, here House was, sitting right beside her.

"You didn't read it?" she said to him. The envelope was sealed.

"No," he said. "It felt like an invasion of privacy. Which is strange, since I apparently wrote it."

Her hands shaking a bit, she took the envelope, opened it.

Dear Cuddy-

If you're reading this letter, I must be dead. For real this time. That other time I died was a fake—to avoid jail time and have one last hurrah with Wilson. (We hurrahed our asses off, in case you were wondering.)

The reason for this letter is . . .well I'm not quite sure. I was hoping I'd figure it out as I wrote. . .

Obviously I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for everything. Some tiny, dimwitted part of me hoped that I would see you at my funeral (how often does a guy get to write that sentence, huh?). But of course you weren't there. I guess once I crashed my car through your living room it was the end of our love story. For you, I mean. Not for me. Our love story is never going to be over for me, Cuddy. Ever.

After Wilson died, well, it was rough. I felt alone in this world…mostly because I was.

But I kept this picture of you and Rachel in my wallet and I would look at it from time to time, when I needed cheering up. Why the hell would that picture cheer you up, you might ask. Isn't it just a reminder of how completely and thoroughly you fucked things up? Well, yeah. But it also reminds me that I was in your life once. That I was happy once. That I made you and Rachel happy once (please don't tell me otherwise—I NEED to believe that's true.) And when you think about it, that's really more than a guy like me ever deserved.

Your always,

The world's most talkative dead guy,

Greg House

A tear dripped down Cuddy's cheek and landed on the letter.

House looked at her, horrified.

"Oh my God. Are you okay?" he said.

"Yeah, I'm . . .I just need a minute to collect myself."

She took a breath. Took a sip of her martini. Looked back down at the letter, dabbed her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

"I think you really were planning to kill yourself," she said softly, almost too herself.

"So that was a suicide note?" he asked.

"Suicide note-slash-love letter," Cuddy said. "Typical House."

"Can I. . . see it?" he said.

"I don't know Doc," she said. "It's a lot to absorb. I'm not sure you're ready."

"I was an outlaw from justice with a hole in his leg who lost the girl," House said. "Not that hard to figure out why I wanted to kill myself."

"And your best friend died," Cuddy said sadly.

"I had a best friend?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "Dr. James Wilson. It was a bromance for the ages. . .he died of cancer last month."

"That sucks," House said, trying to process.

Cuddy put her hand on his shoulder. It occurred to her that perhaps his amnesia was as much a psychological manifestation of his grief as it was a neurological condition. Maybe House had PTSD.

"I really don't think you should read the letter," she said, folding it and putting it in her purse. "That's my personal—and medical—opinion."

"Okay," he said, nodding. "I'm sorry that I—that he—made you cry."

"He did that a lot," Cuddy said.

"Then I'm a lot sorry."

She looked at him. He felt guilty for something that wasn't actually his fault.

"But he made me laugh a lot, too," she said.

"I figured he must've done _some_ things right," House said.

"Oh, he did a _lot_ right," Cuddy said, with a slightly dirty smirk.

They both blushed a bit.

"So what happened? Why'd you dump him? And be specific."

House grabbed a pen that was tucked behind the bar. He licked the tip of the pen, as thought poised to write.

"What are you doing?" she asked, chuckling.

"Just wanna take notes so I don't make the same mistake twice," he said.

She smiled. Charming Doc was just like charming House —irresistible. This could get dangerous.

"Maybe I'll tell you the House and Cuddy love story some other time," she said, standing. "It's getting late."

"So we were in love?" House said.

Cuddy nodded, lost in thought.

"Crazy in love," she said. Then she added, under her breath: "Emphasis on crazy."  
#####

A week later, she found herself driving to Lancelot Lounge again. She told herself that it was because she felt responsible for "Doc," was checking up on him in an almost clinical way, but of course that wasn't true.

Doc possessed everything she liked about House—his intelligence, his wit, his languorous sex appeal—without any of his darkness and anger. He was sweet and a little helpless, like a puppy dog version of House. (Of course, the old House could be sweet, too—and it was a side he shared with Cuddy more than anyone else—but it was hardly his default state.)

She sat down at the bar, ignoring the withering looks from Doc's bleached-blonde pack of groupies, ordered a martini. House saw her out of the corner of his eye, smiled a bit.

"This next song is dedicated to a lady who held my hand—both literally and figuratively—during a very rough time in my life," he said.

He began to play. The haunting tune, a standard, was very familiar to her, but she couldn't quite place it. Then she realized what it was: Unforgettable by Nat King Cole.

She stifled a laugh. He took note of her amusement, of their shared joke, and looked proud of himself.

After his set, he sat down next to her.

"Hi Lisa," he said.

"Hi Doc," she said. Then she chuckled: "Unforgettable? I see what you did there."

"You liked that, huh?" he said, grinning.

He leaned toward her, so that his face was a few mere inches away from hers.

"Thank you for saving me from the cougar pack," he whispered. "They've been getting increasingly aggressive lately."

"Aggressive how?" Cuddy said, giggling. "Like clawing at you? Pouncing? Attempting to mate?"

"Something like that," he said. "More specifically, putting perfume soaked notes with their room numbers in my jacket pocket."

"I was wondering why you smelled like cheap perfume," she said.

"Occupational hazard," he said. "But trust me when I say, I've steered clear. . . You see, I like someone else."

She smiled, despite herself.

"You do?"

"She's the most beautiful woman in this—or any—room. But I don't want to freak her out by coming on too strong."

"I don't think she freaks out that easily," Cuddy said.

"Then maybe she wants to join me for dinner tomorrow night, at the Horizon House? We're having a little pot luck. It's casual."

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" she said, teasingly.

"Hey Wanda!" he yelled across the room. One of the cougarpack looked up, hopefully.

"Yeah, Doc?" she said.

"Uh, forget it," he said, laughing.

"That was mean," Cuddy said, slapping him. Just like old times.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, would you do me the distinct honor of being my dinner date tomorrow night at the Horizon House?" he said, positively oozing charm.

Resistance was futile.

"I'd love to."

#####

Everyone at the Horizon House had Doc's strange mixture of optimism and melancholy. They were melancholy, because something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, to get them there in the first place. But they were optimistic, because things were looking up. There was a conviviality and a warmth among the house members that was unmistakable. They bonded over mutual misfortune and hope.

They were all buzzing about the community kitchen together, pouring wine, tasting food, cracking wise. Cuddy had never seen House interacting with "regular" people with such affection. He teased one of the men for wearing a woman's apron, drank wine from another woman's glass, wrote dirty words with magnets on the refrigerator. Not one of these people had an IQ that even approached his, but there was no judgment, no disdain, no secret under-the-breath snark. He seemed to genuinely like them and they liked him back.

There were about 14 of them, including Cuddy, all sitting around a big table, family style—House was ladling the chili he had made into bowls.

"I wasn't sure if you ate meat," House said to Cuddy. "So I made a separate batch of vegetarian chili just for you."

"Awwww," said Barry, a Gulf War vet who was recovering from PTSD. "Doc has a crush."

"Shut up," House said. But he grinned.

"Well we can see why you like her so much," said Marie, a buttoned-down 50something librarian and—surprise!— recovering meth addict. "She's just lovely."

"Yeah, she is. Isn't she?" House said. And he put a dollop of sour cream on Cuddy's chili.

After dinner, they all retired to the living room. House sat next to Cuddy on the one of the ratty couches—put his arm around her.

The gesture seemed so familiar, that she almost forgot how strange it was. He hadn't touched her with such intimacy in years. Still, it felt natural, good.

"Doc here is like a party trick," Barry was saying. "Hey Doc, what's the square root of 4,964?"

"70.4557," House said.

"And what happened on September 20, 1519?"

"Magellan set sail across the Atlantic."

"And what's your birthday?"

House shrugged.

"Haven't a clue."

Cuddy looked at him, "It's June 11, 1959," she said.

"Really?" House said.

"Yeah," she said.

"Damn," he said. "That stings. I'm old."

"You're just figuring this out _now_?" she said.

"Hey, that's mean!" he said, hitting her.

"Oh, poor baby," she said, stroking his face and giving a fake pout.

He looked back at her, longingly. Their eyes locked for a long time. Everyone noticed. Then he whispered in her ear, "Wanna go upstairs to my room?"

The heady mixture of alcohol, the look in his eyes, and the near-pleading quality to his voice was too much for her. Her nerve endings were positively on fire.

"Okay," she said.

"We're going to call it a night," House said, popping up quickly.

There were a few knowing glances.

"Nice to have met you, Lisa," Marie said.

"See you at breakfast," one of the younger house members said, and everyone laughed.

######

House's room was small, spartan—with a bed, a couch, and a tiny kitchen.

He began straightening up, hastily. There was a newspaper on the floor that he folded and put on the kitchen counter. There was also a stray pair of dirty socks. He picked them up for a second, not quite knowing what to do with them, then threw them in the garbage.

"I have white wine. . ." he said, nervously

"That would be nice," Cuddy said, equally nervous.

He poured the wine into 2 plastic cups and they sat down on the couch.

"To. . . new beginnings," House said.

He took a sip, looked at her. His breathing was somewhat stuttered.

"Would it be okay if I kissed you?" he said.

"Yes," she said.

He put down his cup, leaned in and gave her a tender, open mouthed kiss. His eyes were closed. His long eye lashes fluttered when he kissed her.

"That was nice," she sighed.

He took that as his cue. He leaned toward her again, still breathing heavily, and they kissed for a second time, a longer, more sensual kiss. Her mouth melted into his. She'd forgotten how amazing his lips and tongue felt.

Now his hands were going through her hair and on her back and shoulders—and she helped him unbutton her blouse. He moaned as his hands reached under her bra, found her breasts.

"My God, you're so beautiful," he kept saying, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. "My God."

She unsnapped his jeans and reached through his boxers. They both gasped as she grabbed his cock—his wonderful, huge cock (she'd missed it, there was no denying that)—and guided him inside her.

They found their rhythm almost instantly. It was like nothing Cuddy had ever experienced before—the giddy thrill of fucking someone new, combined with the familiar taste and feel of her oldest and greatest lover. As they often did back when they were regular lovers, they came simultaneously.

Afterwards, he held her in his arms, looked at her lovingly.

"Not bad for our first time, huh?" he said.

######

There was no point in pretending otherwise. She had fallen back in love with him.

So she decided to invite him over to "meet" Rachel.

That morning, she explained to Rachel that her old friend House was coming over for dinner but he had a brain injury, which made him forget stuff, not completely unlike when Great Uncle Al had Alzheimer's and thought he was back in Normandy.

Rachel nodded sagely. She didn't totally get it, but she was excited to see her old best friend.

He was right on time. 6 o clock. He was dressed up, which was adorable, wearing a tie. He had a bottle of wine, too, a 12-year-old burgundy.

"Hi," he said to Cuddy. He gave her a quick kiss.

Rachel hid somewhat shyly behind her mother's leg.

"Hey Rach," he said. "How's tricks?"

It was such a smart thing for him to do. Not, "you must be Rachel" or "I'm Doc." Just a simple hello.

"Can I see your room?" he asked.

And he held out his hand.

Rachel smiled. This wasn't nearly as weird as mama said it would be.

"I have a Power Girls bedspread!" she said, taking his hand, happily leading him to her room. "And a stuffed Wookie, that makes the Wookie noise when you squeeze his belly."

"Seriously?" House said. "The Wookie noise. Sweet!"

Cuddy smiled, watching them.

She went back to the kitchen, continued cooking the Moroccan stew.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in Rachel's doorway.

"Dinner's ready," she said.

Rachel and House were on the floor, playing "First Day of School" with her dolls. Rachel's doll was the kindly teacher, and House's doll was the scared little girl who needed consoling.

"She told me I always used to play with her dollies all the time," House said, with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

"Actually, you didn't," Cuddy said, laughing.

"_Mo-om_!" Rachel said. At five, she had just learned the art of rolling her eyes.

"It was fun," he said to Rachel. "I'll play First Day of School with you anytime."

And stood up.

After dinner, they put Rachel to bed and sat together on the couch. They'd had a lot to drink and were both feeling sated and relaxed.

"You were great with her," Cuddy said.

"She's a great kid. It's easy to be great with her," he said.

"She likes you, too. Always did."

House leaned over and kissed her. As always, a single kiss shot straight between her legs.

"We shouldn't, Doc," Cuddy said, reluctantly pulling away. "Not here. Not yet."

"I understand," he said.

He stood to leave.

"I hope you still had a good time," she said apologetically.

"Best night since my accident," he said. Then he smiled, somewhat suggestively, "Well, _second_ best.

"And I hope my Moroccan stew was at least somewhat edible."

"It was delicious. I don't why your mother was always saying you can't cook."

He had said it so casually, it took a second for it to register, for both of them.

"What did you just say?" Cuddy said, feeling her face get hot.

House looked stunned.

"I said. . .I don't know why your mother was always saying you can't cook. But I don't why I said that. I. . I don't even know what that means."

It hit her, like a tidal wave. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"You fucking bastard," she said.

"What?"

"You fucking lying bastard."

"Lisa, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Stop it House."

"_Did_ your mother criticize your cooking? I swear I have no idea where that came from!"

"Stop lying," she hissed. "You're making it worse."

He looked at her. Seemed to think about something for a long time, then took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. . . Cuddy."

Until that moment, she hadn't been sure.

"You're a monster!" she said, and she began pounding on his chest, hitting him as hard as she could.

He stood there, taking it, as she pounded on his chest, again and again, until she was exhausted.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Let me explain."

"Get out!" she screamed "Get out of my house. Get out of my life. For good this time!"

"Cuddy please!" he said. "I didn't mean to lie to you! It just happened. Please let me explain. Nothing that happened between us was a lie. I love you!"

"Get the fuck out," Cuddy said. Her voice was suddenly calm again.

"Cuddy," he said, one more time, pathetically. He looked like he was about to cry.

"House. Get out or I'm calling the cops."

He started toward the door.

When he got outside, he turned back to her.

"Can I at least have my photo of you and Rachel back?"

And she slammed the door in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

She tossed and turned thinking about House. How he had humiliated her, betrayed her, violated her trust. She was furious at him—and herself.

How could she have been so gullible? How could she fallen so easily for his scam?

The clues were there from the start, if she had only paid attention.

Take that day at the hospital, when he was detoxing. _Cuddy_. He had called her Cuddy. Even a genius like House couldn't keep up such an elaborate ruse while delirious and in pain.

And she had brushed it off— made up the excuse that he had used the informal version of her name (who _does_ that?) because he was so sick. She didn't just ignore the clues. She was complicit in his deception. She actually _filled in the blanks_ for him.

Later, at the height of his anguish, he had moaned that he was a terrible person. In retrospect, that was his true guilt—about the car crash, about faking his own death—coming through. But when she asked about it, he had delivered the perfect line: "I must've been a terrible person to deserve such pain." He made her pity him all over again, want to save him. He played her like a fiddle.

There were other clues: How he knew her drink at the Lancelot Lounge, not just a martini, but a _vodka_ martini (and his switching from scotch to bourbon? Was that all for her benefit? My God, how deep did the deception run?).

Later, he'd "guessed" that she didn't eat red meat, made her vegetarian chili. But of course, he wasn't guessing at all.

Even the sex—dammit, the sex. It wasn't just some new lover's lucky intuition. He knew! The bastard knew exactly where and how to touch her, exactly how to bring her to the peaks of bliss.

Fuck. Gregory. House.

The thing that killed her was—she knew better!

Back at PPTH, she was always alert, on her game. No one could truly keep up with House, of course, but at least she came close. She was virtually the only one who could go toe-to-to with him.

But two years away from him—not to mention the shock of seeing him alive — and she had let her guard down. And who was she trying to kid? She _wanted_ to believe. Wanted to believe in this kinder, gentler, reformed version of House. It had made her the perfect mark.

She promised herself she would never be his fool again.

#######

In the morning, he called her—14 times. She turned off her ringer and buried the phone in her purse.

Rachel was babbling on happily about her visit with House.

"He does the best Wookie voice!" she said. "And he made up new Power Girls! And he said he'd take me to the zoo to pet the lima beans and that they spit!"

"Llamas," Cuddy said, distracted, not even smiling. "Not lima beans."

"Mama, when can House come over to play again?" Rachel trilled.

"House had to. . .go back home to New Jersey," Cuddy improvised—and she watched her daughter's face sink.

Later, she listened to the first two of House's voicemail messages.

"Please call me. I'm begging you. We need to talk," said the first.

"I can explain everything." said the second. "If you'll just let me ex—" and she deleted the rest of that message and then the other 12.

He called her 11 more times. She called Verizon and had his number blocked.

He borrowed someone else's cell phone, called her again. It worked once—she answered.

"Don't hang —" and she hit the end call button. (From then on, whenever she saw a strange number on her phone, she let it go straight to voicemail.)

Two days later, he showed up at her office, with flowers.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "We're not even supposed to know each other."

"Just bringing flowers to the kindly stranger who nursed me back to health," he said.

She took the flowers, put them on her desk in disgust. (Throwing them out would only call more attention to them.)

"You gave me the flowers. Now go."

"We need to talk."

"I don't _need_ to do anything."

"Please let's talk."

"Why? So you can lie to me again? Humiliate me again? Laugh at me again?"

"Cuddy, I never laughed at you. . ." he said sincerely. "I was happy again, that's all. For the first time in two years, I was just . . . happy."

"Well, it's a shame their your happiness was built on a foundation of deceit and lies."

"The foundation of my happiness was us," he said. "The lies were just details."

"Details? Details? Tricking me into taking you back into my heart? Into my _bed_? Fuck you, House. What you call details I call my life."

She must've raised her voice a little too loudly because her assistant came to the door, looking concerned.

"Everything okay Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes, fine," Cuddy said, smiling through grit teeth. "We're talking about his stingy insurance company. You know how worked up I get over that red tape."

"You do," the assistant said, smiling. Then he turned to House: "She does."

He left.

"Impressive lie, Cuddy," House said, with a smirk.

"Don't even try it, House. Even you are not dense enough to equate this lie with your tsunami of deception."

He looked down.

"No," he said. "Tsunami of deception. Nice turn of phrase."

"I want you to go."

"Not until you agree to talk to me. Come meet at the Lancelot Lounge tonight. Just let me try to explain. You at least owe me that."

"I _owe _you?" She was stunned by his nerve. "I owe you nothing House. You managed to ooze your way into my life like the slime that you are and now I want to exterminate you permanently."

"My deception has done wonders for your metaphors, Cuddy," he said.

It was amazing how, with just the tiniest shift in his demeanor, he was back to being his old obnoxious self.

"Get out of my office or I'll call the cops and tell them that Gregory House is alive," she said.

"You're bluffing," he said.

"Try me," she said.

So he left.  
######

A few days later, at breakfast, Rachel asked again about House.

"Can House come over to play tonight?" she said.

"Rachel, I told you, he's gone. He's back in Jersey."

"But what about playing dollies with me? He _promised_!"

"Sometimes grownups break promises, Rachel," Cuddy said. "Eat your pancakes."

He sent her a letter. She threw it out.

But that night, she couldn't sleep again. She tossed and turned, her mind racing.

Finally, she crept into the kitchen, and dug the letter out of the trash.

Dear Cuddy

You say you want the truth, but you won't let me talk to you long enough to give it to you.

Please just read this letter. If nothing else, it might give you some closure. And I promise that this is the truth, the whole truth, so help me, well. . . if I said, God we'd be starting this whole "truth thing" off on the wrong foot.

I came to St. Louis to see you one last time. After Wilson died, I knew I was going to off myself, that was always the plan. But I wanted to say goodbye, you know? To you and Rachel both. But I chickened out. Not about the suicide part, about the seeing you. I knew you hated me, because you hadn't come to my funeral. Can't say I blamed you.

So I drove my bike into a tree. Without a helmet, mind you. That might've been your first clue that the suicide attempt was real. Only morons or guys with death wishes don't wear a helmet. And I'm no moron, Cuddy.

Just my fucking luck I'd land in a patch of grass. (The Kennedys aren't the only ones to have bad luck with grassy knolls.)

So I wake up and there you are. And I'm supposed to be dead and if not, there's a warrant out for my arrest and suddenly it was all so simple: A way to get a clean slate: With you, with my life, with everything.

So I lied. Yeah, I did it to save my ass, but I also did it because I love you. Because I thought, I'm getting a second chance to do it all over again, to do it right this time with the woman I love. What guy wouldn't take that chance if given to him?

Gregory House, you wouldn't give the time of day to. But Doc, the guy with no baggage, the guy who never hurt you: That guy you could possibly love.

Yeah, it was a deception. But in my mind at least, the ends justified the means. Because in the end, I'd be with you, Cuddy. Making you happy again. And that's all I've ever wanted.

Signed,

The Lying Asshole Formerly Know As Greg House

She read the letter twice and knew that she believed him. He would never lie about a suicide attempt. It was a sign of weakness, that he'd given up.

But what really was new in that letter? That he loved her? She knew that already. That he wanted a clean slate? That's not how life works. You live with the consequences of your actions.

He lied to her because it served his needs. Because it made _his_ life easier. Same as it ever was.

She balled up the letter, threw it back in the trash, and went back to bed.

#######

She was haunted though, by tiny details. Things the letter didn't address: In particular, the security deposit box and the suicide/love note.

House was right. If she was ever going to get any sleep again, she needed closure. It wasn't fair that he knew everything and she was still in the dark.

So she went to the Lancelot Lounge.

He was at the piano, and the groupies were still there, and she vaguely wondered how many of them he had fucked at this point—now that his good guy impression was ever. (Hell, he may've fucked them before. He lied about everything else.)

When he saw her, for the first time, he actually lost his place in the music, stumbled a bit, played a few errant chords. Then he switched to a new tune: Willie Nelson's "You Were Always On My Mind."

Cute.

"Takin' 5," he said, when he finished the song. He hobbled over to her.

"You're here," he said, happily.

"I just have some questions, that's all," she said, in a slightly officious way.

"You got my letter?"

"I got it."

"And. . .?"

"I believe you, House. But I still have questions. And you're going to answer them. Right now."

"Okay," he said. He glanced for a second at the vacated piano bench. Technically, he wasn't between shifts. He sat down anyway.

"Shoot," he said.

"The note. The safety deposit box. Was that all part of your ruse?"

House began fiddling with a cocktail straw.

"No," he said. "I wrote you that letter before the crash. I figured you'd find the key. Or the authorities would find it and give you the letter. The money was supposed to be for you too," he added, with a rueful smile. "But once I found myself awkwardly alive I decided I needed it more than you did."

Cuddy looked down at the bar, didn't make eye contact with him.

"And the time. . .between my dropping you off at Horizon House and when I first came to see you here. What did you do with yourself?"

She could feel his eyes on her.

"What did I _do_ with myself?" he asked. "I settled into Horizon House and got a job at a hotel bar, hoping you'd eventually turn up."

"But what if I never showed?"

"Cuddy, I waited 25 years to be with you. I could wait 5 weeks."

She had a flash, suddenly, of the look on his face when she had entered the lounge that first time—happiness mixed with relief.

"The bourbon?" she asked. She noticed that he was still drinking the honey-colored whiskey.

"Just a way of getting into costume," House said. "To remind myself that the old Greg House was dead."

She had to know, even though she hated herself for caring: "And the cougarpack? Have many of them have you slept with?"

"Cuddy, none!"

She swallowed.

"Cuddy," he took her chin, maneuvered her face toward him. "Cuddy. . .I would never. You've got to be joking. You've got to be joking. . ."

"Thank you," she said and she stood up. "That's all I needed to know."

#######

She was bleary eyed again at breakfast, after a sleepless night. She didn't even have the energy to make Rachel any real food. She placed a bowl in front of her daughter, absent-mindedly shook in some cereal, poured the milk.

She made black coffee, sat across from her. Her mind was a million miles away.

"Mama," Rachel was saying. "Can we write House a letter? Can we? Can we?"

She looked up.

"Wha?"

"Can we write House a letter?"

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so," Cuddy snapped.

Rachel pushed her cereal bowl away and began to pout.

Cuddy sighed.

"I'm sorry baby. Mama shouldn't have snapped at you. We can write a letter to someone else, okay? Let's write a letter to nana!"

"Forget it," Rachel muttered under her breath.

######

She had a nightmare that night.

"I want to show you something," House said, taking her hand, leading her up a long flight of stairs. They walked and walked and walked. The staircase seemed endless.

Finally, they got to a roof. There was an enormous gust of wind when they exited the stairwell.

"This is what I want to show you," he said.

He stood at the edge of the roof, facing her, his arms spread. He grinned broadly. And fell back.

"Nooooo!" she screamed—maybe in her sleep, maybe outloud.

She sat up in bed. Her heart was racing. She went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face.

"It's just a dream, it was just a dream," she reminded herself. She felt like she was going to be sick.

She couldn't shake the dream all day, so that night she went back to the Lancelot Lounge.

"It's Doc's night off," the bartender told her.

She drove to the Horizon House. A few of the residents were hanging out in the living room, watching TV. She recognized most of them from the dinner.

"Is Hou—is Doc around?" she asked.

"He's up in his room," Marie said. "He's sure gonna be glad to see you, honey."

She went to his room. Knocked.

House opened the door, looking shocked to see her.

"Cuddy, come in!" he said.

Again, there was a hasty attempt to straighten up. He threw away a candy bar wrapper. He held up a pair of tennis shoes that had been kicked to the floor, not quite knowing what to do with them.

"Don't throw them out," Cuddy said, with a slight smile.

He shoved them under the couch.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Can I get you something? Some wine? Some . . . bourbon?"

"I'm not staying long," she said.

She sat down on the couch, smoothed her skirt a little.

He sat down beside her—not too close—looked at her eagerly.

"I want to know how you are," she said.

He gave her a quizzical look. "I'm fine Cuddy. The amnesia thing was made up. I'm not really sick, remember?"

"That's not what I mean. I want to know if you're going to. . ."

"Try to kill myself again," he said, getting it.

"Yeah."

He blinked at her.

"Surprisingly, no. I'm. . .I wouldn't say happy, but I do want to live."

"What are you going to do with yourself?"

"I hadn't thought ahead that far," he said. "For now, live here. Play at the Lancelot."

"Live here? With all these people? In this glorified dorm house? You hate people."

"I like these people," House said, with a shrug. "They're not so bad."

"And what about your gifts House? And I don't mean as a piano player. . . "

"I can't practice medicine anymore," he reminded her.

"But that doesn't mean you can't use your brain. It's such a waste . . ."

He scratched his chin.

"I've been hanging out a bit at the applied physics lab at the university," he said. "They let me poke around, look through the microscope, talk neuroscience and robotics. They even invite me to their brainiac mixers. I was going to take you to one, but. . ." his voice trailed off.

"Good," she said, standing to leave. "Good."

"You still care about me," he said, stubbornly.

"Not wanting you to kill yourself isn't quite the same thing as still caring about you," she said. "I don't want anyone to kill themselves."

"But you're not in just anyone's room. You're in my room."

"And now I'm leaving."

And before he could protest, she got up and left.

######

When she got downstairs, she bumped into Barry, the Gulf War vet.

"I hope this means you and Doc are back together," he said, smiling at her. "He's been pretty depressed these last few weeks."

"No, we're not back together. We were never really together, to be honest."

"Too bad," Barry said. "Because he really lit up when you were around."

"Well, I thought I knew who he was. But I was wrong," Cuddy said. She started to leave, then stopped.

"Speaking of which, has Doc been. . .different these past few weeks?" she asked.

"Different? I told you, he's been moping around like a lovesick puppy."

"No, I mean. Has he been more of an . .. asshole? Insulting people? Wielding his superior intellect like a weapon?"

Barry laughed.

"Doc's always been a bit of an asshole. That's why we love him."  
#######

Two mornings later, over breakfast, Rachel said: "Mama, can we call House?"

Cuddy slammed her hand on the table.

"What on earth is this obsession with House all about?" she said.

Rachel looked down, began playing with her oatmeal. Finally she said, softly: "It's just that you smile more when you're with House."

Cuddy felt a lump rise in her throat.

She stood up, knelt in front of Rachel, gave her a hug.

"I'm so sorry, baby. Mama's been unhappy lately. I know that. I'm sorry."

"I don't want your eyes to be so sad all the time," Rachel said.

And Cuddy buried her face in her daughter's cotton dress and hoped she wasn't staining it with her tears.

######

It was the regular Thursday night potluck at the Horizon House and the residents were gathered around the table.

"Scoot over, Doc," Barry said. "I'm expecting a lady friend tonight."

House scooted over, rolling his eyes a bit.

"She better be cute," he cracked.

"She's more than cute," Barry said. "She's a stone cold fox."

Just then, the front door opened and a woman, wielding a crockpot, was standing before them.

Cuddy.

House's mouth dropped open.

"Cuddy!" he said.

She shrugged a bit, smiled wearily in a "what are you gonna do?" sort of way.

He stood up, pulled her chair out for her, not able to wipe the stunned look off his face.

"You look. . .amazing," he said.

"Hope everyone likes okra," Cuddy said, placing her crockpot on the table.

"Nobody likes okra," House said, snapping out of it.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy said, giving him a playful slap.

"Who's House?" Barry said.

House and Cuddy exchanged a look.

"Term of endearment," Cuddy said.

THE END


	4. EPILOGUE

**So I kinda thought this was unnecessary, but a few friends—especially Maya and Yael—convinced me people might like it. **

Somehow, the Horizon House ladies had finessed it so that they were lounging around in the living room while the guys were doing the dishes.

House was supposed to be on drying duty, but he had been holding one dish and a towel in his hand for a very long time as he watched Cuddy laughing with her new friends.

"How bout more drying, less ogling there, soldier," Barry said, with a grin.

House looked at him. Busted.

"Just making sure this dish was bone dry. I am nothing if not dedicated to the lost art of dish drying."

Barry shook his head. Took the (still water-spotted) dish out of House's hand, handed him a glass.

"Try harder," he said.

House began drying the glass, still not taking his eyes off Cuddy. Somebody was offering her more wine. She said no at first, then wrinkled her nose and held her thumb and forefinger together to suggest she'd take just a splash.

House smiled to himself, then stopped when he noticed Barry eyeballing him.

"I'm drying! I'm drying!" he said. Then he added, "I've been meaning to ask you: How'd you do it, anyway? How'd you get her to agree to come to dinner?"

"I didn't do anything," Barry said. "She called me and asked if there was room at the table."

"Really?" House said. He had been dutifully drying, but now stopped, trying to process this piece of news.

Finally, in mock disgust, Barry took the glass from him.

"Just go over there, Doc. You're totally useless."

"Sweet," House said—and limped into the living room.

He approached Cuddy from behind the couch.

"Hey, can I talk to you?" he asked.

She looked up, momentarily startled.

"Sure," she said.

He cocked his head toward the stairs. "Up in my room?"  
She hesitated, looked at her watch. "I. . . should be going actually. Why don't you walk me to my car?"

"Okay," he said, disappointed. He had been thinking about getting her naked all night. Oh well, Cuddy wasn't conquered in a day.

They walked to her car.

"What did you want to talk about?" Cuddy asked, not that there was much mystery.

"Why you came tonight," he said. "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you did. But. . . two nights ago, you could barely muster the energy to care whether I lived or died—"

"I never said that," she interrupted.

"Hyperbole to make a point," he said. "It's a known rhetorical device. . . Anyway, tonight you're suddenly having dinner with me. I mean, I hope this was about me. Barry doesn't strike me as your type."

"Don't sleep on Barry—Barry's hot," she said, smiling. "But yes, I came for you."

"So what changed your mind?"

"To be honest, Rachel changed my mind."

"Rachel?"

"She's been asking about you."

"I knew I loved that kid," House said.

"And she loves you too. But this wasn't about you. Not really. It was about me. . ."

"About you?"

"Rachel misses her mother."

"I don't understand," House said. "You're right here."

"The truth is, I haven't been truly present in a long time. Certainly not since you died—the first time. And maybe even before that. Since you crashed through my dining room . .. I've been a little. . . depressed. Or at least not fully myself. And she picked on up that."

"I'm sorry."

"She also picked up on the fact that I was finally happy again those last few weeks when I was getting close to Doc. That is, before I found out that you were big fat faker."

"Whoops," said House.

"And the common denominator, I realized, is that _you_ make me happy, House. Whether you' re Doc or whether you're—"

On impulse, he caught her mouth in a kiss. He couldn't help himself. Seeing her lips utter the phrase, "You make me happy" was like an aphrodisiac to him.

She kissed him back for a second—long enough for them to start feeling that familiar ache—then backed up.

"What was that for?" she said .

"Nothing," he said. "I'm sorry. I just . . . _really_ needed to do that. You were saying?"

She laughed.

"Lost my train of thought. . ."

He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"So. . . can I call you?"

"I'm afraid not," she said.

He looked crushed.

"I blocked your number, dummy. Remember?"

He smiled, relieved. "I'll buy a new phone," he said. "A fleet of new phones." Then he said, nervously: "Actually, I'm getting together with a bunch of the Applied Physics Lab guys Friday night. . .they may seem like a bunch of wonky egg-heads who haven't seen the sun since 1984—and that's because they are. But they're a nice enough bunch. And they always buy the first round."

Cuddy nodded.

"I'd like that," she said.

"7 o clock? I'll pick you up?"

"Pick me up? With what?"

"Bertha!" House said, happily.

"What, pray tell, is Bertha?"

"She is." He gestured to a large, banged up motorcycle that was leaning against the garage. (It was leaning because it had no kickstand.)

"You've got to be kidding? Where'd you get that pile of scrap metal?"

"Craig's List. And I'll have you know, she's a classic."

"If by classic you mean—"

"Old," he finished. "Yeah. But she runs pretty well. . . once she agrees to start."

"How'd you even get a license, House? Do you even officially exist?"

"I know a guy," House said, with a shrug.

She shook her head, marveling at him. He always knew a guy.

"Tempting as it is, how bout I pick you up?"

"I think I'm secure enough in my masculinity to allow that," House said.

"Good," she said.

"Since that will officially be our first date as the new, improved House and Cuddy I was just wondering: Are we adhering to the dreaded 3-date rule?" House said. "Cause, I'm not gonna lie, that's gonna be rough. Especially if you keep wearing outfits like the one you're wearing tonight." He gave her a lascivious once-over.

"I'm wearing a tee-shirt and jeans," she protested, looking down.

"Exactly!" he said.

"We'll see," she said, not able to suppress a smile.

"Goodnight Cuddy," he said, smiling.

"Goodnight House."

He leaned down, gave her a hug.

From inside, the denizens of Horizon House were watching through a window.

Barry, who had the best view, was giving the blow by blow.

"Now he's hugging her goodbye," he said.

There were a few approving murmurs.

"Now they're kissing again!" Barry said. "Now he's got her pinned up against the car. . . it's getting kind of R-rated out there, that dog. . ."

Suddenly, the old military man in Barry took over:

"Disperse! Disperse! Incoming at 12 o clock."

Indeed, Cuddy and House were heading back inside.

When they walked through the door, everyone tried to look as innocent as possible. They couldn't have been more obvious.

Both House and Cuddy blushed.

"I forgot that I needed to give Cuddy some. . ." House struggled to think of a good excuse.

"Ointment," Cuddy said. Then cringed a bit.

House stifled a laugh.

"Yeah, ointment. For her rash. Nasty bit of work. So we're just going to go upstairs and find that. . ."

"Ointment," Cuddy said—and cracked up.

House put his arm around Cuddy and they eagerly bolted for his room.


End file.
